Chapter 8 - The Fall of Volkov
The Volkov estate in Long Island was an opulent, gated fortress overlooking the dark waters of the Sound.
At eight o'clock that evening, Mikhail Volkov sat in his grand mahogany office, surrounded by six of his top captains, drinking ice-cold vodka while reviewing maps of the Midwest distribution lines.
"Marco was an idiot," Volkov spat out in a thick Russian accent, slamming his glass onto the table. "He let an old man and a retired boss destroy a five-year operation in one night!"
"Sir," his chief lieutenant stammered, looking at his buzzing phone. "We have a massive problem."
"What problem?" Volkov growled.
"The federal authorities just seized our shipping containers in Newark," the lieutenant gasped, his face turning pale. "And... and our private accounts in Cyprus have been frozen by the International Banking Court."
Before Volkov could react, the heavy oak doors of his office were pushed open.
I walked into the room calmly, flanked by four of my most elite operatives, all wearing dark suits and holding silenced sidearms.
Volkov’s guards reached for their weapons, but my men were faster, taking them down with non-lethal, precise shots before a single round could be returned.
Volkov stood up, his face twisted in absolute rage. "Moretti! You dare step into my house?"
"Your house is currently being foreclosed by the United States government, Mikhail," I said smoothly, stepping up to his grand desk and setting a thick folder of legal injunctions on his polished wood table. "Every shell company, every port lease, every illegal asset you owned in this country was linked to Marco’s ledger. And two minutes ago, I handed the primary decryption keys to the Special Prosecutor."
Volkov’s breath hitched in his throat. His entire empire—built over thirty years of violence and corruption—was collapsing around him in a matter of seconds.
"You... you ruined me..." Volkov whispered, his hands trembling as he stared at the legal documents.
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"You tried to take my city using a child as leverage," I said, stepping closer, my eyes locking onto his with terrifying intensity. "You should be glad I’m letting you spend the rest of your life in a federal penitentiary instead of the bottom of the Hudson."
I turned on my heel and walked out of the room, leaving the broken patriarch to face the flashing red lights of the federal convoys pulling up his driveway.
